


Loud

by twothumbsandnostakeincanon (somanyofthekids)



Series: Empathy, Empathy, Put Yourself in the Place of Me [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Child Stiles, Dissociation, Empath Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Peter is fucking devoted as fuck to his pack, Pre-Slash, Stiles Stilinski is Part of the Hale Pack, and doesn't give two shits about anyone else, but I don't want anyone to be unpleasantly surprised when suddenly there's guts a little bit, but not exactly it's more complicated than that, gratuitous description of emotion through sound metaphor, the Graphic Depictions of Violence is a just-in-case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-01 06:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13991964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somanyofthekids/pseuds/twothumbsandnostakeincanon
Summary: Some days Stiles doesn't talk. He doesn't fidget and he doesn't look and he doesn't listen.Some days it's just too loud.





	Loud

**Author's Note:**

> Two updates in one week, whattttttttt?? Watch me disappear for a month now while I deal with Winter finals and the beginning of Spring quarter and all the after school activities my kids have because I thought it would be a great idea to go back to school and get a degree in music composition while I still have 3 kids in elementary school because I'm an idiot.

The minute he woke up to a dream memory of his mother’s smile, Stiles knew it was going to be a loud day.

His empathy was turned up to 11, the sensitivity leaving no room for himself in his body. He was simply a conduit for everyone else around him. A receiver for the megaphone of the world’s emotions.

Anger, fear, joy, anxiety- every single emotion in his neighborhood pounded through him, paralyzing him and preventing outward expression of anything other than blankness.

He lay in his bed, pulling together enough shards of thought to remember that his dad was already at the station this morning, having been called in for a bomb threat to the high school. His dad would be busy all day- it would be an interruption to have to call Stiles in sick.

Besides, he had to help Cora and Scott with their homework today.

Stiles mechanically got himself out of bed and showered. He made toast, but by the time he boarded the bus he wasn’t sure if he’d actually eaten it or not.

Riding the bus on loud days was like being held underwater by a frigid wave.

60 other middle schoolers, each trapped in their own cyclone of hormone driven emotion, crammed together in a tin can for 40 minutes- and Stiles was drowning in it all.

When Scott got on the bus and saw his’ face, he knew Stiles wasn’t going to be talking that day. He sat next to his friend and leaned against him, offering touch when words weren’t enough to break the surface.

School passed as it always did on days like this; a blur of horrific slowness that he couldn’t recall later. Internally he was buffeted by the howling of every jealous boy, every browbeaten girl, each irritated teacher.

Stiles wanted to laugh, scream, and cry all at once, and could do none of it. He just sat, waiting for a nudge from Scott when a teacher called on him so he could answer “I don’t know” and go back to enduring the constant scream of feeling around him.

Stiles clawed his way to the surface after the last bell for long enough to confirm that they were still going to Cora’s. If he hadn’t been so occupied by the deafening squeeze of his heart, he would have noticed Cora glaring at anyone who stared at him, crossing her arms and blocking their view.

The Hales lived far enough back on their own property that Stiles could slowly feel the emotions of the general populace fade slightly as they walked from the bus stop up the drive to the house. The moment they stopped inside, it was like the temperature had changed around Stiles. He was still underwater, but it was a warm sea now.

Scott noticed the minute changes in Stiles’ posture as they walked in.

“Stiles,” he began slowly, “you with us?”

Stiles shrugged. He was, and he wasn’t.

Scott continued, “We could probably do the first part by ourselves, if you want to go just hang out by yourself for a while. We can come get you for the second half.”

Stiles heard Scott from somewhere deep under his skin, and nodded distantly. He felt for the most quiet place in the house and started walking there.

Two minutes later, he found himself in front of a door, and walked in without knocking. He took a few steps in and stopped, feeling a slow release of pressure around his mind and heart. It was _quiet_.

“-iles? Hello?”

Stiles jerked his head around, noticing Peter for the first time.

“Peter?” he asked, a little confused.

“Yes, I believe we’ve met before,” he said sarcastically, but with a furrowed brow.

Stiles huffed at that and crossed his arms, still disoriented but trying to hide it. “What are you doing?”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “I’m doing what most people do in their office; working.” He gestured to the ancient books on his desk and the computer sitting next to it.

Stiles looked around and noticed that it must indeed be Peter’s office. No one else in the Hale family would have so many weird looking books and weirder looking throw pillows.

“Oh. I, uh, sorry. I guess I’ll go.” He looked at the door but didn’t move.

Peter was curious and growing more concerned the longer Stiles stood there.

“Are you alright Stiles?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he responded automatically.

Peter pursed his lips. “Did you know that werewolves can tell when you lie?”

Stiles gave Peter a flat look, and said “So can I, I just don’t call people out on social nicety lies because I understand that sometimes certain people don’t want to get into a spontaneous therapy session with the creepy uncle of their friend.”

Peter inwardly cringed. He supposed he deserved that.

Outwardly, he held a hand to his heart, acting offended. “I’m just the creepy uncle? I should warrant the title of Scary Uncle at least.”

“Scary? No. Spooky Uncle at most.”

“Spooky! Excuse me??” Peter shifted his eyes and dramatically snarled his fangs, bringing his claws up to showcase their points.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “What, because you can kill me with your bare hands? So could Scotty if he really wanted to. So could my decrepit neighbor, under the right circumstances. You’re not special.”

Peter huffed and sat back with crossed arms. “I am _the most_ special, but I don’t have time to list all the reasons- I have to get back to work. Don’t you have to go downstairs to do your math teacher’s job for him?” he asked, honestly curious as to why the routine had changed.

Stiles shuffled a little. “They’re doing the first part by themselves. They’ll come get me in a while,” he said vaguely. He looked like he was holding something on the tip of his tongue, but was unable to quite spit it out.

Peter was still confused. Stiles took his job as a tutor very seriously. He was always there to walk the other two through their assignment step by step, explaining things in different ways until something stuck.

“Can I stay in here?” Stiles finally blurted.

Peter shrugged. “Sure, with three conditions: admit that I’m the scariest, and then sit down and shut up.”

Stiles looked solemnly at Peter. “You are, without a doubt, the scariest werewolf named Peter with a Master’s degree in Medieval European Linguistics who lives in Beacon Hills and is currently sitting in this room.”

“That does _not_ honor the spirit of our agreement,” said Peter with a frown.

Stiles grabbed a piece of paper and a pen out of his backpack and quickly wrote something down before handing it to Peter.

_I’d love to amend my statement, but I promised to shut up._

The corner of Peter’s mouth twitched. This kid’s commitment to sass was admirable. He loudly sighed with a poorly concealed smile and gestured to a smaller corner desk.

“Go sit over there.”

Once Stiles was settled, he opened his history textbook but turned his focus inward.

It was strange. Stiles had been coming to the Hales for several months, and while he’d noticed that Peter had kind of quiet emotions, he hadn’t fully realized that Peter was in fact dampening everything around him too.

Honestly, it was incredible for Stiles. He usually just had to wait out a day like today. It could last anywhere from one to three days before the extra sensitivity went away.

There were certain people who were more relaxing to be around; Scott for example. Scott’s emotions and way of feeling just seemed to mesh well with Stiles. It’s why he’d befriended him in the first place way back in kindergarten. He’d just sat down next to the kid who increased his nervousness the least.

Before his mom died both his parents had been that way too. Now… well.

Every now and then he’d walk by someone else who gave a similar impression, like Stiles could find them to be more comfortable than most if he got to know them. However, he’d never felt anything quite like Peter before.

Stiles revelled in the hush.

Around 45 minutes later, Scott and Cora came into the office, Cora looking a little uncomfortable and Scott looking concerned.

“Hey dude, you alright in here?” Scott asked.

“Yeah, I’m good now. Are you guys ready for the second part?” Stiles closed his history text and shoved it back in his backpack.

Scott’s mouth hung open in shock at Stiles’ improvement, but Cora just looked a little sheepish.

“We, uh, couldn’t finish the first half.”

Stiles grimaced at himself a little bit.

“I’m sorry guys, let’s go take care of it.”

Stiles gave a quick wave to Peter on his way out, but Peter was distracted with his head craned over a huge, two foot tall tome that looked to be written mostly in runes.

With every step he took away from Peter’s office, Stiles felt the emotions press back a little harder, but it wasn’t quite as bad as before. By the time they reached the kitchen table, Stiles only needed a deep breath to steady himself, and then they dived into the homework.

* * *

A couple months later, a warlock moseyed into Beacon Hills with the intent of starting a bookshop and killing children.

Peter thought his career goals could use some tweaking.

“Dorian Gray isn’t a fucking role model,” he muttered to himself as he picked the lock to the store. “Who actually wants to stay young forever anyway? Elderly people are almost always underestimated, it’s a prime position for grifting.” The lock clicked as Peter considered how many unsuspecting people his mother had probably swindled in the last five years.

They didn’t actually have proof yet, but there was only one new magic user in town, and two victims of attempted kidnappings in the last month had come home with a heavy smell of sulfur. One child had kicked the warlock in the balls and gotten away while the other had been knocked out and woken up surrounded by candles and a circle written in “Russian or maybe Chinese or maybe those Egypt letters.” She’d escaped through a window.

In any case, the Hales agreed that it sounded like someone was attempting an invocation for Eternal Youth, or some similar garbage. Since moving back to Beacon Hills, Peter had started taking over what was essentially the position of Pack Spymaster from his mother, so the process of dubiously legal information gathering fell to him.

Once they had proof, the retribution would be swift and severe, but Talia insisted on concrete evidence first.

Peter moved stealthily through the shop toward the back room. He paused a few yards away as he heard chanting, and then-

“Dude, you do know that Botox exists right? Like I get it, botulism to the face is kind of a weird concept, but it’s also a process that involves approximately zero murder. Like that’s just a rough estimate of how much murder is involved. Zero. None. We could probably find you a- _nonono, no murder_ -”

Peter roared and charged through the door, barreling straight for the warlock who had just enough time to lower his knife and look surprised before his blood painted the floor. Peter stabbed and slashed viciously in his rage, repaying the attack on his pack with pure annihilation. He was heaving for breath by the time he stopped and looked over at Stiles.

Stiles was slumped over in abject relief, held to a chair with zip ties.

“Oh thank fuck,” he said, and then stopped. “Don’t tell my dad I said fuck.”

“Are you bleeding anywhere? Broken bones?” Peter sniffed, but the smell of sulfur and the warlock’s blood covered every other scent. He began snipping through the zip ties as Stiles answered.

“I have a monster headache. He knocked me out with chloroform, the asshole. But other than that I’m okay. Well, like, I’m okay for having been kidnapped and almost sacrificed and then watching someone die a violent death for the first time in my life. Wow, it’s uh, it’s a way different experience than watching someone you love die slowly, you know? Actually you probably do know, your dad’s dead isn’t he? Cora mentioned something about her grandpa-”

Peter kept an eye on Stiles’ rambling, his apparent coping mechanism of choice, and called Talia.

“I need help with a body,” he said as soon as he heard the click of a pick up.

Talia sighed exasperatedly. “Peter, you were just supposed to gather evidence! We were going to organize something tidy!”

“He had Stiles,” Peter said shortly.

There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment.

“Is he still alive?” she asked, a slight tremor in her voice.

“Yes,” he answered firmly. “He says he has a headache from the chloroform, but other than that he’s fine.”

She sighed out a shaky breath of relief.

“Alright. Okay. Joseph and I will take care of the disposal. Get Stiles out of there.”

Peter ended the call without saying goodbye, eager to do as she said and get Stiles the hell away from here.  

Stiles had stopped running his mouth at some point during the short conversation, and was now standing next to the door, rubbing his wrists and staring at the dead warlock.

Peter deliberately blocked his view and ushered him out of the shop.

On the way back, Stiles was silent until he noticed that Peter wasn’t headed to the Stilinski’s.

“No, I need to go back to my house,” he said.

Peter raised his eyebrow. “Is your dad there?”

“Not yet, but he’ll be home around 4. I need to be there.”

“Stiles…” The kid had just been through a traumatic event. Hell, Peter was already anticipating a few nightmares about this and he already had death on his hands. “You really shouldn’t be alone.”

“I won’t be,” he said with a stubborn set to his lips. “My dad’s coming home. I’ve got to tell him… well, not exactly what happened, because plausible deniability, but enough about what happened that he won’t dig around too deep when that guy goes ‘missing.’” He used finger quotes, and Peter noticed his hands trembling.

“ _Peter_ ,” Stiles said forcefully when Peter didn’t change direction. “ _I need to go home_.”

Peter pinched his lips, but turned the car around.

Once they reached the Stilinski’s, Peter went inside with Stiles and handed him the phone. “Call your dad. Tell him to come home as soon as possible.”

Stiles didn’t argue, just took the phone and dialed.

“Hey daddy-o!” he said as John answered, sounding concerned. “Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine here-” Peter cleared his throat loudly and Stiles sent him a dirty look. “-but you should probably come home as soon as your shift is done. Like right immediately after it ends. Come straight home.”

Peter listened as the sheriff’s tone became even more worried than when he first answered. “Stiles, do I need to come home right now?”

Peter deftly lifted the phone out of Stiles’ hand and held it up to his own ear.

“Hello John, this is Peter Hale.”

“Peter?” John sounded twice as alarmed now. “What’s going on?”

“Stiles can fill you in once you’re home, but it would be best for you to leave now if at all possible,” Peter said, stressing the _at all_.

“Right, I’m on my way.” There was a click, and Peter handed the phone back to Stiles.

Stiles rolled his eyes, but couldn’t hide the gratitude he felt at Peter getting his dad to come home early.

It made Peter wonder why Stiles didn’t just ask himself.

Peter looked at the door, and hesitated. He needed to go help Joseph and Talia, but leaving Stiles here alone didn’t sit well with him. What if the warlock had put some delayed curse on him, or what if he went into shock? He was 12 years old for Christ’s sake.

“Oh my god Peter, just go,” Stiles said, exasperated. “You have to help chop up the guy you just shish-kebabed. My dad’ll be home soon.”

“You call Derek to come get you if you start feeling weird _at all_ , alright?” Peter demanded. “I mean it, Stiles, or I’ll tell your dad you said the fuck word,” he threatened.

“Yeah, absolutely,” Stiles agreed. Something was off, but Peter didn’t detect a lie.

Peter took one last look at the young empath, and left.

* * *

The cleanup didn’t go as anticipated on account of the cops being called when a drunk noticed the front door of the shop was open, tried to rob the place, and then saw the blood. Talia and Joseph had to hustle the corpse out of the back room before anyone could arrive, and in doing so got evidence smeared all over the trunk of Talia’s car.

John had been halfway out the door, hurrying to see his son, when the call came in. His least favorite deputy snagged him and John had no choice but to go along to check it out.

The moment John saw the bloody, bodyless crime scene, he frantically called his son.

“Dad? I thought you were coming home?” Stiles said instead of hello.

“I just got called to that new bookstore on Juniper Avenue,” John said tensely.

“Oh.”

John dropped his voice. “Just tell me you’re okay. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m- I got chloroformed, but I’m okay now. Peter got me out of there.”

“Jesus, Stiles,” John sighed shakily. “This is probably the bastard who kidnapped the other two, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed. “He was working the whole ‘eternal youth’ angle.”

John blew out another breath. “There’s no way I can get away from here for a while, Stiles, but I don’t want you to be alone. Call the Hales okay? Have Derek or someone come pick you up and take you to their house.”

“Yeah, sure Dad, absolutely.”

“Alright. I love you son.”

“Love you too Dad.”

John had a hell of a long day ahead of him.

* * *

Stiles sat at his kitchen table, staring at the phone. It was about 3:30 am. People were asleep at 3:30 in the morning. Their emotions were quieter, the muted feeling of dreams their only empathic output. People were asleep at 3:30 am. Stiles remembered his mom reading a book to him that called this “The Witching Hour.” People were asleep.

Why was everything so loud if people were asleep?

The Hales would be asleep.

He probably shouldn’t wake them up.

Stiles went upstairs to his bed.

Because people were asleep at 3:30.

Maybe it would be quieter soon.

* * *

Movies always underestimate how long it takes to get rid of a body.

It was almost 3 in the afternoon before Peter drove home. Talia had had to go to a meeting a couple of hours ago, and Joseph was taking care of the last bit of car detailing necessary to throw off any forensics.

Peter drove past the bus stop just as the middle school bus was letting off, and was completely set on ignoring Cora so that he could go straight home and sleep- until he noticed that she had started walking the wrong way.

He sighed, thinking longingly of his bed, and pulled over.

“Cora! Where the hell are you going?” he yelled out the window.

Cora ran up to the car and jumped in.

“Stiles wasn’t at school today, and when Scott faked an asthma attack so he could call his house from the nurses office, no one answered. Scott got so worried that he gave himself a _real_ asthma attack, and now he’s stuck dealing with that so I need to go check on Stiles.” She looked expectantly at him.

Peter rubbed his face tiredly. “Stiles got kidnapped by that asshole warlock last night, he’s probably just sleep- wait, no one answered? Not even the sheriff?” He turned bleary eyes on Cora.

“Scott said no one answered, and he called three times while the nurse was looking for his spare inhaler. We have to _go_ , Uncle Peter.” Cora, unflappable Cora, looked anxious, and as her words penetrated Peter’s fog of exhaustion, so was he.

They pulled up to the Stilinski home, no cruiser in the driveway. Peter cursed when he realized the front door wasn’t even locked, and he and Cora raced upstairs toward the lone heartbeat in the house.

Stiles was curled up on his bed, motionless, eyes open and staring at nothing. His skin was cool and clammy to the touch, and his heartbeat slower than his normal Adderall enhanced rate.

“Stiles?” Cora said as Peter checked his pupils. Their reaction was normal, and Stiles finally blinked. Slowly, his eyes focused on the two of them. Still, he said nothing, and his eyes unfocused after a moment.

Peter pulled out his cell phone and furiously dialed the sheriff’s department, demanding to be put through to John.

“Go get a glass of water and some crackers,” he commanded Cora as he waited on the line. She dashed off immediately.

“Sheriff Stilinski,” said John tersely on the other end.

“Why is your son home _alone_ and _catatonic_ after experiencing a traumatic event last night, Sheriff?” Peter bit out, hand cupping Stiles cheek as he crouched down in front of his expressionless face.

“Stiles is what?” the sheriff said, alarmed. “He’s cata- he’s at _home?_ I told him to go to your house, I got called to the crime scene and I couldn’t get away without essentially committing obstruction of justice. He- god damn it, is he responding to anything at all?”

Peter did his best to swallow his anger, at both John and himself for leaving Stiles to this, and answered. “His eyes focused on me for a moment, but that’s it. His body temperature is lowered and his pulse is slow.”

“His empathy accelerates in response to stress sometimes, _shit_ ,” John swore in a low tone.

“Wait, wait, he’s-” Stiles began to stir just as Cora burst back into the room with a tall glass of water and a sleeve of Ritz.

“Peter?” he said, voice groggy.

“Your blood sugar is low, you have to eat,” Cora said, her tone loud and demanding to cover up how worried she was.

“Cora?” Stiles looked confused.

“He needs quiet, empathic quiet,” John instructed over the phone, unable to hear what was happening in the room. “He likes your house, or just get him as far away from people as possible. Once you get him away, he might be functional enough to eat or drink, try to help him with that. I’m leaving right now,” Peter heard the sound of an engine turning in the background, “but I’m at the lab in Beacon Landing, so it’ll be at least an hour. Call me in 40 minutes to let me know where you end up.” The sheriff hung up without another word.

Peter blew out a slow breath to keep his temper under control, and then gently asked Stiles, “Hey, can you sit up?”

It took a couple of tries, as if he’d forgotten how muscles work, but he got mostly upright and leaning against the headboard with Cora on one side of him and Peter on the other. She pressed the water into his hands, and he drank greedily. After a glass and a half and a third of the crackers, he finally seemed to really come back alive.

“Why are you guys here?” he asked, chewing.

Cora looked at him disbelievingly. “Because we don’t want you to die of shock, idiot.”

Stiles looked uncomprehending. “I wasn’t going to _die_. You’ve seen me like this before. Okay, maybe not as bad, but you’ve seen me on loud days. Well, they’re probably quiet days for you guys, since I don’t really talk. Peter, you’ve seen one too, just like a couple months ago.” Stiles looked at them as he put another cracker in his mouth.

Suddenly Peter realized.

“You weren’t _nearly_ as bad then!” Cora said.

“You spoke to me that day,” Peter said slowly. “We had an entire conversation.”

Stiles smiled nervously. “Yeah, that’s right, we talked about how you’re not scary. At all.”

Refusing to be derailed, Peter continued. “That was significantly different from what I witnessed when we arrived here, Stiles.” He looked critically at the kid in front of him. “Your father seemed to think the only way to help would be to get you away from people.”

Stiles continued chewing, buying time to decide on the best way to explain it.

“Yeah, I think you might be like, empathic earplugs. Kind of. I don’t really know, I’ve never met anyone like you before and I didn’t even really notice until last time. But you have a kind of… quiet way of feeling. Like your emotions are all there and everything,” he hurried to clarify. “You’re not just missing some, like a sociopath, and they’re not tainted the way horrible people are, they’re just… quiet. And that quiet just seems to carry over and suppress everything when I’m around you. I don’t really notice on a normal day because it’s mostly background noise to me unless I focus on something, but when I’m having a,” he stumbled over his words, “a- loud day- a sensitive day- when I just feel every single stupid emotion happening-” He blew out a breath. “When it’s bad, I think you help.”

Stiles stopped talking, and shoved two crackers into his mouth during the ensuing silence.

Peter… Peter couldn’t make himself fully understand. The day had been too long by far, and his higher thought processes were refusing to work. He took his phone out and sent a text to both John and Talia, letting them know where they were. When he was done, he waited for Stiles to finish his water and then took the glass and the remaining crackers to place them on the nightstand.

Then he yanked Stiles and Cora down on the bed so that they were all three tangled up together.

“Shut up,” he said before they could say anything. “We’re having a pack nap. You don’t get a vote. Go to sleep.”

So they did.

* * *

Several hours later, when John, Talia, Peter, Stiles, and Cora were congregated in Stiles’ room for some reason instead of the living room, the full story was finally put together.

Stiles had been kidnapped on his walk home from the grocery store (“Stiles, you _know_ you’re not supposed to go at night, you don’t have to have Fruit Loops for breakfast every single day, _it could have waited”_ “God Stiles, I was already out, I could have given you a ride!”) It was unclear if the warlock had known of his connection to the Hale pack, or about his empathy, or even that he was the sheriff’s kid. He may have just been easy pickings.

They’d never know now, because the only person with the answers was in several pieces spread around the preserve.

No one considered the information a big loss, in comparison.

The only real missing piece was that Stiles had already been entering empathic shock when Peter left to help take care of the body. Stiles hadn’t said anything because he’d thought he’d be fine until his dad got home. 

He had not, in fact, been fine.

“And you didn’t call Derek to come pick you, even though I very specifically told you to do that if you felt like something was even a _little bit_ wrong?” Peter clarified.

Stiles shifted back and forth. “... maybe.”

Peter stared at him for moment, and then deliberately turned to John.

“Stiles said fuck.”

Stiles gasped in betrayal.

Peter turned back and stabbed a finger at him. “You have to do your absolute best to take care of yourself if you want me to keep your fuck word secrets.” He sighed and rubbed a hand around the back of his neck. “It’s pretty clear that a lot of mistakes contributed to this today,” he looked hard at John, “but the thing I think is clearest is that we all need a fuck ton of therapy and new coping solutions.” He leaned towards Talia. “Is Derek’s counselor taking new clients?”

Talia nodded. “She is. I’ll leave you with her phone number, John.” It was clear that it was less of a suggestion and more of an _or else_. “And obviously I can’t speak for the Stilinski family, but I think that in our family, a kidnapping earns the use of at least two incidents of the f-word. However, you, Peter, have not been kidnapped.”

Peter sniffed disdainfully. “I’m an adult, I can use whatever words I want.”

“At our house, maybe. But if John has a swear jar, you owe at least three dollars by now.”

“You know, Talia, we do so happen to have a swear jar!” John didn’t mention that no one had used it since Stiles was 7 and Claudia completely gave up on not using the word “shit” at least once an hour. John only got after Stiles for using the f-word because he knew the middle school gave out detention to kids who got caught saying it.

Peter grumbled as he dug out his wallet and slapped four dollars into John’s hand.

“Consider the extra dollar a prepayment for the next one,” he snarked.

Cora went home with Talia later, but Peter ended up sleeping on Stiles’ floor that night, giving him a longer break than he’d ever experienced before. It was incredibly restful, and also incredibly strange. Stiles kept having to resist the urge to pop his ears because it felt so quiet.

The next morning he felt normal again, and Peter left.

When Stiles got home from school, his dad was sitting at the kitchen table, absently fidgeting with the card Talia had given him for Derek’s therapist. Stiles sat down next to him, and John looked up with a wobbly smile.

“I probably should have gotten us both into counseling right after she died,” he said, voice a little thick. “I just didn’t consider that there would be someone who knew about all this- supernatural stuff, and also have a psychology degree.” He brushed a hand over his eyes. “Probably should have just gotten us both into a regular counselor anyway.”

Stiles shrugged. “Well… we can do it now.”

His father’s guilt, so familiar to him, scattered slightly with a small note of hope. He smiled.

“Yeah. We’ll do it now.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey look they're going to go to THERAPY because that's what you do after a TRAUMATIC EVENT even though you'd never know it from any TV show ever. I'm just sayin'. The entire character list of Teen Wolf could use therapy. Peter, Derek, and Stiles in particular could get a lot out of that thing where you yell at an empty chair.


End file.
